


we should get jerseys

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a lot surrounding Harry, and Louis knows, in his heart of hearts, that there always will be. He just doesn’t know if he’ll manage to equate into the ‘always’ of it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Harry is a hockey player, and Louis is his slightly melodramatic boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we should get jerseys

They’ve got ten minutes left in the third quarter, right, _ten_ minutes—and Harry is fighting.

“What the _fuck_!” Louis calls out, slamming his hands on the stupid board separating him from sprinting onto the ice and doing, and doing _something_. He doesn’t know what, but that doesn’t matter, because they’ve got ten more minutes and that fucking idiot is fighting. 

“Language, Louis,” Coach sighs for what is probably the fifteen hundredth time that evening. 

“Language?” he surely doesn’t screech, “am I the only one who sees what’s going on here?” He looks around at the other players on the bench, and Louis swears that if that’s fucking Harvey laughing he’ll hit him in the face with a stick. As if he needs any more fake teeth. 

Out on the ice, Niall has gone and joined Harry in yelling what are probably some really colorful words. Louis thinks it’s amazing; off the ice, most of the hockey players Louis has had the misfortune of meeting act like prepubescent teenagers with each other, but once they get on the ice it’s all swearing and fighting and fighting the urge to throw a puck into someone’s face almost as much as they try to get it into the net. 

Louis sees it when things go to shit, right before the ref gets to them: Niall gets all in the opposing player’s face and then the guy’s ugly red face gets scrunched up and _murderous_ , and all of a sudden there’s a gloved fist in Harry’s face. 

Louis has seen it enough times that he knows he should be used to it by now, but it’s just damn near impossible. Every time it happens, there’s this, like—feeling of your gut exiting your body through your ears and your lungs contracting in on themselves. Like your body is positive this is it, that this will be the time that something serious happens, even as you watch it play out as nothing more than a little petty pushing.

“Well, shit,” Louis says, sitting down next to Coach and watching as the ref intervenes and pulls Niall back before he manages to claw the helmet and skin from whoever #63 is. Louis wishes he actually knew how to skate and could go on there and shred someone’s bones. He’s wished this many a time. 

The three of them all get penalties. It’s eerily quiet on their bench, even while the stupid crowd cheers. Two of the opposing team’s best players on penalty and their own coming out of it unscathed. Away games fucking suck. It’s not like this is the fucking _NHL_ , and these aggressive assholes seem incapable of remembering that. 

This is the issue with hockey, Louis thinks. Louis has seen enough American football and basketball games (in movies, sure, but semantics are troublesome) to know that once the game is over, they could go on ahead and brawl it out in the parking lot. But here, it’s like there’s so much fighting already down during the game that no one really bothers to go to blows once it’s over. Even less so here, in damn Chicago, when every geared-up fuck in this arena has spent their entire life hoping to get drafted by the Hawks—the real Hawks, not them—and wouldn’t dare do anything publicly embarrassing that’d get them put them to the bottom of the list. 

Louis watches as Harry skates towards them. His nose is bleeding and his mouth looks bruised. Coach sends Dan out to replace him the second Harry’s got both feet on the ice—it’d be super shit if they got another two minutes for having a seventh player have a single foot on the rink, and it’s happened before, of fucking course it has. 

Harry heads immediately for him, and just stands there. Louis stares straight ahead, refuses to look up even though his view is being obstructed by Harry in all his height and glory. 

“Don’t make him cry, Tomlinson,” Harvs calls out, getting agreements from the other boys. 

“I’m not going to _cry_ ,” Harry grumbles. His voice sounds gargled and rough. He’s totally cried before. 

Louis sighs. “Go to Niall’s mum and get yourself cleaned up, you’ve got ticking time.”

“Look at that, baby’s crying,” Harvs says pityingly. 

“Fuck yourself,” Harry says, walking the little bit away to Mrs Horan. Louis’ always found it like… weird, almost, how Harry can hardly manage to keep himself upright when he’s in normal people shoes, so clumsy and tripping over everything, but the second he gets in skates, he becomes what could possibly even be labeled graceful. There’s something about talent and natural skill hiding in that sentence but Louis is still too upset about the fight to allow Harry that compliment. 

Harry’s two for fighting ends sooner than it ever seems like it will, and the second he’s up, Dan is coming back in and Harry is rushing off from Maura’s unfinished care to get on the ice. He does gently bump his forehead against Louis’ before he puts his helmet on, though, and he’s always been too easy when it comes to Harry.

*

They win the game by the skin of their teeth; Harry does something in the last few seconds that looks illegal but is too quick to be able to properly determine and right as the final buzzer sounds, the puck slides between the opposing team’s goalie’s legs and into the net.

Louis is afraid for half a second that it’s not going to get counted, that he shot it a millisecond too late, but no, the scoreboard changes from 3-3 to 3-4. Fucking _right_. 

There’s a bit of booing—okay, there’s a lot of booing—but none of them care because they won, even with the little fuckup near the end. 

“And _that_ ,” Niall booms, standing up from where he’s sat next to Liam on the seat adjacent from Louis’ shared one with Harry, “is why Harry fuckin’ Styles is the best cap the Hawks will ever have.”

The bus cheers, and Coach doesn’t even bother telling anyone to watch their language or calm down before they drive him nuts and he drives off a hill. Not even his mum says anything, which is a big deal. Not that she’s not used to Niall’s absolutely atrocious language even around adults, but it’s all about appearances. 

“You’re talking like I’m captain of the Hawks-Hawks or something,” Harry says embarrassingly, blushing and gripping Louis’ thigh tight. “S’not that big a deal.”

“Shut up,” Niall says cheerily, sitting down and leaning across Liam to only address H now.. “You’ll be that captain in ten years when the love of your life pops his kn—”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Harry interrupts, scandalised. Louis rolls his eyes so hard it hurts the back of his skull. “What if you jinxed him, Niall, that’s not a joking matter.”

“By that point, Louis will have broken a rib from swearing at the refs even though he’s never played a game in his life, so maybe that’ll take the place of Toews’ injury,” Liam jokes, ducking when Louis tries to throw the bloody wad of paper Harry’s been dabbing at his nose every so often with. He doesn’t even make any sense.

“You’re saying his name all wrong,” Louis says before Harry has a chance to. His mouth’s already open and indignant. It’d be adorable if… well, it’s still mainly adorable. Louis is biased. 

“We are full-bred American, we don’t have time for Canadian foolishness,” Niall answers for Liam. “Free from the oppression of Mother England centuries ago.” Louis wonders if Niall realises that Canada and the UK are different countries on, you know, different continents, but probably not. Hockey causes a lot of brain damage. Niall had enough of that as it is. 

Jamesy turns his body to quip, “and yet here she is,” and ruffle Louis’ hair before he can duck or stab him in the eye.

*

Louis was bred, born, and raised in the UK up until he was fifteen. Then, because of a huge raise his mother would be getting that would allow for things to be comfortable instead of tight, they packed up and moved to the States.

He and his family lived in northern Florida for about nine months, but then his mum realised that there was actually no point if they weren’t in South Beach, bringing the heat, so they went to the even better paying Chicago branch. 

It sucked, if he’s being honest. All his friends were left behind, and it hadn’t been like they moved to Glastonbury or London and it was a train ride away. It was an entire ocean across, and the only steady contact he had with them was Facebook. 

Thankfully, Louis is good at hell at lying and, more importantly, lying to himself. After reassuring himself confidently that he would be fucking rad and everyone would love him, he was fucking rad and everyone loved him. Naturally. 

Being the new kid is aggravating, sure, but that’s mainly because you don’t know which teachers you should preemptively hate or love and can skip homework with. It is nowhere near as shit as in American movies, though, where you’re left standing in the cafeteria while they throw chocolate milk all over your white blouse and you end up eating in the loo for the rest of your life. Not that that aren’t _extremities_ , Louis gets that, but it’s a stupid overcrowded public school and he is ace at manipulating large groups of people into liking him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s absolutely bloody gorgeous, he knows it. 

When he looks back on it, he thinks it should have been coming, but their psychology textbook says hindsight always makes things unrightly seem obvious, so he tries not to smack himself in the forehead. It’s impossible to list all the hints now that Louis saw at the beginning —there were literally giant posters in scattered places around the school that looked professionally done to say _IsItOctoberYet_ , along with how it seemed every child in those buildings were speaking about some sort of hawks. Maybe they were super into birds, he’d figured. Which, fuck you, he’s from England, they probably don’t even have hawks; it’s not as if it’s a popular sport in _Florida_. 

He made friends with a bloke named Zayn early. Louis has since been told that this is rarity, but Zayn had been the TA for the front office and was unlucky enough to get ‘asked’ to give Louis a tour of the school and his classes (Louis has come to know Ms. Lisa fairly well and there really isn’t anything other than commanding with her). Louis is awfully persistent and 100% the funniest person he knows, so the challenge of getting Zayn to crack a smile and give more than a third of his attention to Louis wasn’t too bad. 

Zayn gave him the lowdown on their school environment, and about the wacky obsession with hockey. Wacky to him, at least. Chicago is, as it turns out, pretty big on hockey. If you’re understating. Zayn actually got disgruntled when Louis started laughing and didn’t stop for a week. 

To be fair, he’s still laughing.

*

Harry’s got a hand rubbing up and down Louis’ thigh, and Louis fights against getting hard and laughing into Harry’s neck. So fucking obvious.

The bus goes over a speed bump. It’s always worse the farther in you are, so Louis practically jumps a foot into the air, and Harry seems to think the way to prevent him from cracking his skull open is not just to steady him but to place him half on Harry’s lap, too. Across the aisle, Niall and Liam are laughing at them, but Harry just grazes his nose down Louis’ neck and whispers into his ear, “so I won.”

“Yes,” Louis agrees, finding that it’s getting even harder not to, y'know, _get_ hard. “You did. The entire team did.”

Louis can feel Harry rolling his eyes before saying lowly, “Well, you’re not going to let the entire team finger you.”

He clearly doesn’t say it as lowly as he thinks, though, because then the players immediately around them are catcalling and giving suggestive looks.

“Fucking hell,” Louis swears, blushing brightly and getting off Harry’s lap. “There’s a time and a place.”

“No better time than now,” Atkins leers obnoxiously, winking. “Give us a show, Cap.”

“Don’t think I can’t skin you alive,” Louis warns, while Harry says, “you’ve got extra drills at practice tomorrow.”

“We don’t even have practice tomorrow,” Atkins reminds him smugly. Harry narrows his eyes. 

“Coach!” he shouts to the front of the bus. “We’re having practice tomorrow!”

“Sure,” he calls back. 

Harry grins at the groans and complaints that fill the bus. Louis loves him most when he’s being an absolute bitch.

*

Back when, Zayn had managed, after much persuasion, to convince Louis to go to the first game of the year.

“I can think of at least fifty better things I’d rather do,” Louis had responded, hardly looking up from the homework they were doing in the front office instead of attending their respective classes. Ms. Lisa marked them off as excused from the class because she’s completely in love with Louis and Zayn is good at whining. Or maybe the other way around, but that’s for him to know. “Like die.”

“Everyone goes to the first home game, Louis.”

“If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?” Louis said.

“You don’t understand anything,” Zayn sighed, turning back to the English papers he was grading for his freshman English teacher. Of course he was a genius on top of being the best looking thing in this entire school. “And our psychology teacher gives extra credit to people who show up because he’s the coach.”

“Shit,” Louis said, finally looking up from his papers, “why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

They showed up an hour early, to the distress of Louis, but Zayn said he wanted benchside seats. They went to the empty snack stand to buy food, and Louis made sure that Zayn understood just how much he didn’t want to be there after the vendor told them to give him a sec and he’ll be right back. 

“I’m probably going to fall asleep ten minutes in,” he said. “So I brought my headphones, made a soothing sleep mix to try and block out the screams of hundreds of psychopathic tasteless fanatics.”

“You’re honestly so annoying,” Zayn told him, typing something on his phone. 

“So you’ve said a couple hundred times,” Louis said, trying to look over Zayn’s shoulder to see what for and who to and getting elbowed out of the way. “Fucking violent prick.”

The vendor came back then, with a bagful of Gatorade squeeze bottles that haven’t yet been capped. 

“Sorry,” he said, taking them out and lining them all up in a row like he’s the unlucky shit who has to refill them all. Which — yep, that’s what he was doing, he was definitely that guy. “What’ll it be?”

“Can we have a large nacho, no, two large nachos, and two large Cokes?” Zayn asked, already taking out his wallet. Louis would offer to pay his half, but it was entirely Zayn’s fault that he was there, so it was only fair to allow him to pay the cost of outrageous rink food. A true dent.

“Nachos are still frying,” he said, tilting his head to the side whilst simultaneously filling up bottles to the brink without dropping anything. Kid’s a pro. Louis would have knocked over half the bottles and just drunk the water himself. “It’ll be five minutes, I’d recommend staying before the rush comes in and you lose any chance you had.”

They did and, five minutes later, as the vendor filled the last of the bottles, a boy—a tall boy— bumbled toward them, carrying a huge cooler, in what Louis was at least aware enough to recognise as a hockey jersey. Louis figured it was just another vendor who was also a fan or, well, to be fair, he didn’t put much thought into it because he didn’t _care_ , and just kept complaining. 

“I can think of fifty different things I could be doing instead of this, Zayn,” Louis stressed, glancing out the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see the new arrival’s face, but his hair was nice, swept up in this weird concoction of curls. 

“You said that already,” Zayn sighed, not looking up from his phone. Louis was so busy fretting about this that he didn’t even eavesdrop on the conversation the two vendors are having as they dump the bottles into the cooler full of ice. 

“Didn’t you hear what Avery said? Repetition is key. No, but seriously, this is like... what even happens? They hit shit with a stick into a net? Football is the same thing except more like… rugged. And manly. There’s so much padding with this shit it’s like they’re kindergarteners playing a little game. Pointless.”

Zayn glanced up at him for a second to raise a judgemental eyebrow before going back to his phone. “Football has touchdowns, idiot.”

“Real football, not American football,” Louis explained, exasperated. 

“Oh,” Zayn registered. “Soccer.”

“Shove your soccer up your ass,” Louis told him, leaning against the counter. He misjudged the distance, though, and ended up falling. Except for how he didn’t, because there was a hand gripping his elbow tightly and helping him stay steady. 

When Louis looked up, he wasn’t shocked to find that it wasn’t Zayn but _was_ to see that it was tall boy in jersey and oh, _wow_ , tall boy in jersey was pretty fucking… pretty. 

“Wow, hello,” Louis says, righting himself once pretty jersey boy lets go. “Thank you.”

Pretty Jersey Boy stepped back with a curious look in his eyes. Instead of just saying _you’re welcome_ and going back to his job, he commented lightly, “I don’t think hockey’s pointless.”

Louis resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but he did sigh loudly and give him a condescending smile and said patiently, “we’re all allowed to have our wrong opinions.”

Pretty Jersey Boy let out a frightening bark of laughter at that, managing to look surprised and amused at the same time. And a little challenged. Louis was impressed that people who liked hockey could focus on more than one emotion at a time. 

“Done with the cooler, Cap,” the vendor said.

“You don’t have to call me Cap if you’re not on the team, Ross,” Pretty Jersey Boy said, turning back to the vendor with his mouth quirked up into a smile. “Even if you _are_ on the team. Thank you for the help, though, and sorry Niall made you do it when I told him to do it himself.”

Cap. Amazing, Louis thought. Truly amazing. He ranted about hockey in front of the captain of the team. 

Beside him, Zayn was shaking with silent laughter.

*

Louis likes the actual act. Harry likes the foreplay.

Most of the time, Louis can convince Harry to just get to the point rather than spending an hour fingering Louis open. _There’s always time for that_ , he’ll whine, even though there kind of isn’t, and he never gives the chance either, always going on about later opportunities. 

They don’t actually fuck as much as everyone on the team thinks. Louis is always up for it, but Harry’s always tired. He goes from school to hockey to homework and sometimes combinations of the three all at once. And then they’ve got college applications, even though the entire world knows Harry won’t have a chance to even do orientation. Except Harry, of course, who remains so annoyingly humble and open-minded Louis wants to slap him in the face with his own stick sometimes. As if he even has any clue what he’d do if he didn’t get drafted. 

Point is: dating the captain of one of the most notable high school hockey teams isn’t all sex in the lockers and fucking in his jersey on the rink. Neither of those are as fun as people would assume—well, okay, the lockers are pretty great, but Louis almost got frostbite on his dick the other time and that’s something he’d prefer not to relive. Time is hard to find or manage, and when they actually _do_ , Louis wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep Harry from sleeping instead. A lot of it is composed of handies and fast and dirty blowjobs that Harry is only half awake for.

Louis is not going to waste precious, precious time where he could have Harry’s dick up his ass, that’d be outrageously foolish. 

Except, okay, he consistently uses this excuse. And Harry is getting smarter, or something equally frightening, even though Louis is pretty sure there’s a certain number of concussions and head injuries a person gets before their brain stops working and Harry passed that point a long time ago, so it’s clearly not fair. Harry’s always been chock full of contradictions, though. 

Harry waited until he was blowing an incredibly sleep-deprived and impressionable Louis before pulling off his cock right before Louis was about to come and asking him so quickly Louis barely understood the words, “if we win the next game I get to finger you as much and as long as I want.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Louis whined, kneeing Harry in the cheek just a little and thrusting his hips up. The head of his cock hit Harry’s cheek and smeared come all over it, which was honestly almost good enough to get Louis off, but then Harry had a tight grip around his cock that prevented him from being able to come any time soon and seriously, _what the fuck_. 

“Agree,” Harry said, squeezing his hand until it was just on this side of painful. 

“Agree, agree,” Louis agreed, trying to fuck up into Harry’s hand. Harry’s grin then looked so _wicked_ and pleased Louis almost realised that he’d just been bribed. 

He definitely realised it later on. Harry hasn’t let it go, has made sure that he remembers their little deal, and Louis has known without a shadow beyond the doubt that there's no way he could get out of this one. 

The thing is. The _thing_ is. Louis fucking loses it if Harry spends more than the bare minimum for prep, and a lot of times to Harry’s absolute disappointment, he’ll do it himself just to get it over with. When they're Harry’s fingers, when it’s drawn out… Louis gets really unokay. Which definitely isn’t a word, but it’s all he can think to describe it. It feels so much more personal than normal fucking does for him; Louis doesn’t know why, and he knows that thinking so is backwards but maybe it’s the way you end up stripped bare and out of your fucking mind but the other person isn’t, not to that extent. It's weird. He's probably just being stupid, he knows he is. 

Louis doesn’t tell Harry this, but he never has to. Harry always gets him, somehow, even when they’re oceans away and Louis is missing him so hard even his pride isn’t strong enough not to let just a little slip. 

Louis climbs into Harry’s window in the middle of the night after the game and they've both fulfilled their nightly familial duties. Even though the two of them love making out, Harry is yawning into the kiss hardly three minutes in. 

"Alright, bud," Louis says, pulling back. "Go to sleep."

"No, I'm fine," Harry says, trying to pull Louis back in all while stifling a yawn. "Good to go, c'mon."

"H, you probably couldn't even get it up right now, you're so tired."

Harry gapes at him. "M'seventeen, I can _always_ get it up." 

"Oh, to be young," Louis sighs, running a hand down Harry's bare chest. Harry is blazing, body heat always running so high. His speech is slurring, though, and Louis is too good of a boyfriend to deprive him of sleep he so desperately needs. Sadly. 

"Only two months older than me, fuck off," except then he's ready falling asleep, and that takes so much of the bite out. 

When Louis wakes up the next day, the sun is high in the sky and Harry's mouth is on his dick. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Louis gasps, sitting up. 

Harry’s hand comes up to press down on Louis’ chest, pushing him onto his back. There’s already a palm braced firmly against his hip that prevents him from thrusting up the way he so desperately would like. 

Harry’s red, red lips are wrapped around the head of his cock, and Louis isn’t awake enough to be able to handle to watch this, he honestly isn’t. He closes his eyes and tries to relax into the bed, the wet heat of Harry’s mouth driving sounds and swears from somewhere deep and guttural inside his body. 

He wonders how long Harry’s been doing this before he woke up. It doesn’t matter, though, because there’s spit dripping out the side of Harry’s mouth, and his face is all flushed and beautiful and Louis is almost positive this is divine intervention. 

Louis’ orgasm kind of comes out of nowhere. Usually he can tell, can feel the telltale signs and how his body reacts, but this time, it’s just Harry unexpectedly pressing the pad of his finger against his rim and fuck, yeah, he's there. 

Harry climbs back up his body and kisses him. He tastes like come, Louis' come, and Louis is like eighty percent sure he'll be ready to go again in the next ten minutes. 

Harry says, voice low and breath soft, "I'm going to finger you. For an hour, if I want. And you're gonna come two more times. Okay?" 

Two minutes. "You're a shitty person," Louis answers. 

Harry's got on the same grin he had when they first met, more than a year ago. Louis wants to keep surprising him with the things he says another year down the line, too. He almost says so out loud, but it's way too early to be embarrassing himself that way.

*

So there are moments like that, ones that seriously a big deal except in the face of Louis’ propensity for blowing things out of proportion. And then there are the times that scouts come to Harry’s games and there’s buzz all over about how likely he is to get first round draft next year — and he’s _really_ likely — and Louis has to force himself to keep a smile and his face and not betray how absolutely fucking selfish he really is.

Cause, like. Harry’s really fucking talented. Louis knows this. Everyone who’s ever seen him play knows this. He’s like, top potential, the type of guy cameras focus in at important juniors games, the type that makes headlines and MVP and a _lot_. There’s a lot surrounding Harry, and Louis knows, in his heart of hearts, that there always will be. He just doesn’t know if he’ll manage to equate into the ‘always’ of it. 

America is pretty big. No shit, innit. But it is. And there are more than a few hockey teams. Ones in North Carolina, Florida, Colorado. The list goes on. Even worse than that, though, are the ones to the north, in an entirely different country. If Harry gets recruited by the fucking Flames, who aren’t even a real team, not by any standards that matter, then Louis honestly seriously absolutely has no idea what he’ll do. 

He knows it’s stupid to center so much of yourself around a single human being; his mum has given him speeches on it even though she so dearly adores Harry and is glad that he’s happy. And he knows she’s right. Especially when, give or take seven months, that person won’t be in your life much. 

Still.

*

Louis would never admit to it now, but when Harry first asked him out, he was shocked.

Not because he didn't think Harry was making a good decision, of course he was, Louis's a fucking catch. But it's not as if he imposed the best first impression. 

School was school, though, and after administration fixed the initial mistakes and put him in Calc instead of Algebra II, Louis’ entire schedule got rearranged. He got more classes with Zayn, but beyond that, he got classes with Pretty Jersey Boy, whom he found out from was named Harry. 

Harry was in five of his seven classes and sat near to him in four of them. S and T were still next to each other on the alphabet, apparently, and way too many teachers still thought alphabetical order had a point past primary school. Louis never minded because he’s always in the back, but when he walked into that first class and Jones told him to go sit behind to one Harry Styles, Louis —well, he wasn’t _wary_ , but jocks can be assholes about the sport they love. 

Harry hadn’t done or said anything, though, just kept looking forward with a small smile on his face. His lip was busted and his left hand was tightly wrapped with gauze and hell, Louis still would. 

(He’d managed not to fall asleep during the game, was the thing, and it wasn’t like Louis knew much about hockey, but even through his bare minimum, he could tell that the team was good. And that Harry was better. 

Louis had no idea how or why or if maybe he was suffering from a yet unknown disease, but he found it hot. Really hot. There was loads of padding, yeah, but there was ten times as much violence, and you could _tell_ that they were getting hurt, and Louis found that brilliant. He loved watching people get hurt. And the way they skated was breathtaking. Louis himself could hardly roller skate without falling down on his ass, and they had such an efficiency and speed that was amazing to watch. They fucking demolished the other team, 7-3. Harry scored two. 

Football was still better.)

He and Harry kept getting out together during group projects and whenever those weren’t assigned, Harry would ask Louis if he wanted to join his before the assignment had even sunk in. He was always trying to make conversation, too, asking Louis how he was and grilling him about his music taste and hobbies and things like that. The people Louis had quickly realised to be part of the hockey team kept catcalling him in the hallways, too, pushing a blushing Harry towards his direction whenever they walked by. 

So, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have been all that shocked when Harry asked him to go see a movie with him during the middle of Avery’s lecture about McCarthyism. His boy’s never been all that good at being subtle.

*

Harry’s been chosen to represent the States in World Juniors (again) and it’s insane. It’s just fucking insane.

His school schedule has been modeled for it: the two electives he signed up for have been placed as his first two classes except that he’s not even attending them. There’s a waiver that allows him to opt out (Louis really doesn’t know the specifics of it, and Harry is horrible at explaining things) and do training every morning instead. 

So days go like this: up at 5:30, at the school’s rink by 6:15, training until 9:00. Shower, dress, run to third period and be in his seat by 9:15, where Niall will be waiting for him with a banana and some super disgusting organic drink that’ll keep him from falling asleep before 10. Fourth, sixth, and seventh with Louis. School ends at 3:15, but then he’s got practice with the team until 5:30. Home, dinner, homework, try to be asleep by 10:35. 

Weekends are weird. 

Saturdays, Louis can try to squeeze himself into Harry’s day as much as schedules allow. Harry only has practice every other Saturday, so if Louis can convince him that he won’t diminish his chances of getting drafted if he skips a single day of working out, they can have breakfast at the fattest diner in town. Even if Harry will only get the healthy options. 

A lot of weekend nights, Louis sneaks into Harry's room so that they can at least have the night together. That's always nice, because those times Harry is fifty times more likely to actually be able to have really quiet sex that can last more than ten minutes. 

Sunday mornings, Harry's got to do church, so Louis'll leave his house right before Anne comes to threaten Harry to consciousness and then wait patiently ('you sulk moodily,' Lottie corrects but fuck her, what does she even know) until Harry drives immediately to his house afterwards to chill and do homework. But mostly chill. Louis loves the Sundays that Harry goes to church because he actually has to wear decent clothes that aren't half ripped and always looks so fucking _good_ , all pressed trousers and fitted silk button downs that couldn't possibly cling more, and only make Louis feel a little bad for desecrating him all over again.

*

Thanksgiving break comes around sooner than he expected. It's only just begun to feel like October really got underway, let alone for most of November to already be done and over with.

On the Monday before Thanksgiving break, Harry runs up to him from behind in the middle of the hallway on the way to fourth period and jumps on his back. Harry is a stupid and ridiculous weight, _plus_ he’s carrying his ninety-pound hockey bag so whatever, Louis totally can’t be blamed for how he almost falls on the floor and stumbles into a pair of freshmen. Harry doesn’t even move, just remains plastered to his back and giggling into his neck. 

One of the freshmen starts choking on her gum. They’re still not moving away, though, and Louis is bad at admitting fault so he just stares at them with a blank face and raised brow until they scurry away. Louis loves freshmen.

“Stop being mean to freshmen,” Harry murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss where his shoulder meets his neck. 

“What’s the point of attending an American high school if I don’t destroy a fourteen-year-old’s life, Styles?”

"I worry about you sometimes," Harry tells him. 

"Well, it's not as of there's much to do otherwise," Louis says. They're still in the same spot, so Louis starts walking, knowing that Harry will follow him. 

Harry does, taking hold of Louis' pinky with his as they walk towards AP Gov. "You could kiss me." 

"And get a detention for public indecency? McFarlane might be ten feet up your ass, but she hates me enough for both of us." 

Harry frowns. "Mrs. McFarlane doesn't hate you you."

Louis snorts. 

"Whatever, you could... um. You could do Thanksgiving with me. And my family. Gem's coming up from Vanderbilt, and it'd be, uh. Cool. If you joined. Us. If you want."

"Sure," Louis says simply, walking into class and choosing not to mock Harry for his speech inability for once. 

"Cool," Harry says. He's trying to be as nonchalant as Louis himself is, but that smile is anything but hidden.

*

Nonchalant. Louis isn't nonchalant.

It hits him during Debate the next day: wow, holy fucking shit, he's spending Thanksgiving with Harry. With the Styleses. Multiple Styleses. He really hopes it's only the main four; knowing his luck, Harry's twice-removed aunt will hate him and convince the rest of the family that they should, too.

Zayn's across the room, and they're all meant to be working on their speeches, so Louis can't exactly just get up and go over. He can, however, take out his phone and text furiously. 

_They're all going 2 h88888888 me_

_sick of u startin in the mid of a convo like im gna know_

_His fam!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_idc_

_> :(_

_what. I'm not playing the guessing game w u_

_H invited me for thx din. With his fam. what counts as fam???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????_

_people you're related to_

_Wow Zayn. Amazing. Let me complain to u_

_dumbass his family love u_

_What if extended_

_cry and pray_

_Thanks for the help_

_Lou. they'd be stupid not to love u esp if their last name is styles we all kno there's done creepy witchcraft at play there but its true. ur gr8_

_Are u calling me a witch_

_im glad thats what u got out of it_

_love u_

_b tru 2 u boo_

*

As per. So Louis corners Niall during their last class while Harry is down in the front office.

"I need you," he tells him, sitting at the desk next to his. They're actually supposed to be doing an English assignment, but it was so depressingly easy even James has already finished it. 

"Talk to me, baby," Niall replies, putting his pen down and grinning over at Louis. "Sexual or otherwise?"

"Both, big boy, so long as you promise not to tell Harry either one." 

Hytt is staring at them suspiciously from his desk, but Louis has him wrapped around his little finger. He always does with English teachers; it's the only consistently good part of his educational career. 

"I wouldn't trust your teeth around my dick, so let's go with the otherwise. Hit me, sweetheart."

"Well, snookums," he starts, "I don't know. Has he told you?" 

"Of course he's told me," Niall replies, scoffing. "Told me what?"

"About," and at this he leans in and lowers his voice, "thanksgiving."

"Oh," Niall nods. "True, true. I feel you. It's only gonna be the immediate four. He and his sister do his dad's family in fucking like Vermont or Wisconsin, some stupid hick place. I'm pretty sure it's Wisconsin because I fucking hate Wisconsin, so it only makes sense Harry would have relatives there."

"You're so horrible about other states but yell at me if I even say something mean about like, Texas. And you really hate Texas."

"You don’t get to have an opinion because you’re British, sorry, sucks. Thanksgiving breakfast with us."

"Who's us?"

"The team, Louis, the team. Keep up. It's tradition: we all meet up at like, the asscrack of dawn at Coach's house and then cook a huge brekkie and watch old games on the NHL Network. It's so bomb. Chill as fuck, too." 

"H didn't tell me about that," Louis frowns. He can't believe he didn't know. He knows everything. 

"Good," Niall says. "He's not supposed to. We're the only ones allowed there, even Mrs Coach leaves. Which is so uncool, her omelets get me so in the zone and like, prepped for life. You know?”

“Not really,” Louis says. “Are there like, any secret Thanksgiving traditions the general world doesn’t already know about?”

“Nah,” Niall answers him, shrugging. “S’like Christmas but less presents, basically. And football.”

“You guys watch football on Thanksgiving? What teams? Liverpool?” Louis asks innocently, just to fuck with him. 

Niall throws a water bottle at his face.

*

Like 90% of the situations in Louis' life, the buildup is a lot more dramatic than the actual event itself.

Thanksgiving is good. 

Louis spends the first part of it watching classic British films and drinking shitty tea out of the good chinaware. His mum goes out and buys KFC and pizza at 11am, just like they did last year, except its a lot less fun this time around because a) Louis can't eat any of it and b) Louis is freaking out. 

"Calm down, loser," Lottie demands, throwing a piece of chicken at his face. 

"I'm too calm," Louis argues, ignoring proper manners and eating the piece of chicken. He doesn't think the five-second rule applies if it landed on his pyjama pants, even if he's not sure of the last time they were washed. "Fizz, will you come with me?"

"Absolutely not," she replies cheerily. 

Harry texts him to _Come over!!!!!!! :))))) (with a change of clothes just in case)_ fifteen minutes to four. Louis leaves right away, almost forgetting to kiss Mum on the cheek or even get his wallet. So calm.

He gets to Harry's in a record six minutes. There's a marginally familiar grey Honda sitting in the driveway next to Robin's truck, and Louis takes a deep breath before shutting off the ignition and saying a little prayer. 

The door opens before he's even raised his hand to knock to a grinning Gemma who immediately pulls him into a hug.

"You've grown so... little," she teases, holding him by the shoulders and appraising the way his aunts do.

"Ha, ha, ha," Louis says, rolling his eyes good-naturedly and feeling every bit of anxiety and nervousness float out.

Well, okay, that's a lie. There's still some awkwardness. That tidbit makes it all the way through being coerced into helping Harry finish the smashed potatoes ("I'm at least eighty-nine percent sure you can't fuck this up, babe, wash your hands and get an apron—") and setting up the table and being seated. 

Then Harry's praying, a deep and thoughtful one that'd probably move Louis to tears if he had any religious belief other than Harry's mouth on Sunday afternoon. Then he's finally finishing up and saying, dead fucking serious, "we made to Thanksgiving, so, hey, maybe we could make it to Christmas ," and yeah, okay, it's chill.

*

December rolls around and then right on through.

Before Louis has had adequate time to prep himself, it's the 20th and Harry is packing for Sweden. 

Louis is currently sat on his bed, bouncing lightly on top of the mattress with his palms braced on either side. Harry is standing in naught but his briefs as he rummages through his closet for any last minute things he might need. It's pretty unnecessary; he and Anne got his bags ready days and days ago. Louis thinks it's mainly therapeutic. 

They don’t talk about how Harry is leaving the second the sun sets tonight or how Louis won’t see him for more than two weeks. They never do. Harry has been all over, travels a lot because of hockey and it’s—it’s chill. It’s totally chill. Louis likes to imagine that if he tells himself that enough times, it’ll be true. 

During the summer, Louis’ first summer with Harry, he only saw him for about a third of it. And that was being generous. Harry’d told him the second they got together that he goes around a lot, and that sometimes it’s for extended periods of time. Louis is lucky enough that he hasn’t seen the worst of it, like when Harry did two years with the Tri-City Americans in fucking Washington _State_ and luckier still that Harry stayed home instead of joining the Knights even though everyone told him it wasn’t the smartest career choice. When Harry told Louis about the travel, though, Louis just grinned and said easily, “I like ‘em cultured.” 

And sometimes it’s… Nah. He’s not doing this today. He’s thought about it enough for a lifetime. 

"Do you think it's a bad idea if I pack that blue—"

"Yes," Louis interrupts, glad for the jolt back to the present. 

"What about..."

"Nope. You're going to Sweden at the end of December, asshole, try not to die of hypothermia before the puck's even dropped."

"'M'at least sixty percent sure I won't die." Harry turns around, flexing and cracking his fingers. Louis can't keep his eyes off them, and feels his mouth run dry and the warmth flare up and spread out. Judging by his slow, lazy grin and the way he dips his thumb under the waistband of his briefs, rubbing painstakingly slowly at the sliver of skin Louis can see, Harry's noticed. "Hey." 

"Hey," Louis replies, clearing his throat and dragging his eyes up past his torso and the long line of his neck. 

"You wanna?" 

"I always wanna," he says, leaning back on his forearms and watching Harry walk closer and closer still. 

"Swaggie," Harry responds, folding the band of his briefs down an inch. 

"I cannot believe you ju—" Harry shuts him up with a kiss, pressing him back on the bed with his weight.

Louis can feel Harry already hardening against his thigh, prominent as always and especially so through the thin cotton of his briefs. Harry kisses him thoroughly and perfectly, stealing the breath and beat right out of Louis' heart. If there's some desperation there, too, then that's not Louis' place to say. 

"Isn't," Louis starts, shutting his eyes tight. Harry trails his lips down his neck, sucks at his collarbone with an edge that keeps it from hurting unbearably but not from burning. It's a good burn, though. Harry's usually are. "Your mum here? Or on her way? You have to—oh, H... Bank." 

Harry lifts his head, looking into Louis' eyes with in a glint in his own. He licks his lips, dragging his teeth slowly over his bottom one. Louis doesn't fucking _get_ it; he doesn't get how a kid who is teaching himself computer programming and has probably ninety different types of brain damage since he was six can be so... so _intense_. It should go against something. There should be rules. 

"I have to bank?" Harry asks, raising an amused eyebrow. 

"Yes," Louis says defyingly. "That's what I said. You just used swaggie as an adjective and real word, I'm pretty sure you can't judge me for anything ever." 

"Swaggie _is_ an adjective. It's a social movement. Niall wrote an essay on it for a contest our sophomore year. Won 500 bucks in second place." Louis tries not to think too hard about their current situation and the conversation they're having in it. 

"Who won first?"

"Zayn," Harry answers, finally getting back with the program and grinding down. Louis is wearing sweats, but he isn't wearing any underwear and the pressure and friction is brilliant. "Duh." 

"Fucking figures," Louis says, the vowels of the final word extending as Harry reaches down between them to grab Louis' cock. Louis brings his legs up to wrap them around Harry's waist, tightening around the ankles and pulling Harry down closer, closer, closer still. Sometimes he wants nothing more than straighten himself down, find a place he'll fit around Harry and hold onto it tight as he possibly can, make it so that Harry can never leave his side. Especially not for something better.

*

The issue with this is that Harry _does_ have something better.

Louis isn’t joking when he says that Harry is kind of a big deal. Juniors posts a lot of coverage. Juniors post a lot of coverage of _Harry_. 

Louis watches or hears about Harry shooting goal after goal, giving assist after assist and people are going batshit over it. After Harry gives the assist that beats Russia out and advances America to the _finals_ , for the second year in a row… shit. 

Pro-leaguers get asked about it. Crosby manages to actually infuse a gram of emotion when he answers a reporter that Styles is, "pretty good," thereby announcing to the world that the Pens are at least nine feet up Harry's ass. 

The pinnacle of it all, though, is when HTV posts an interview with the Captain. Most of it is about their last game and what their short winter break was like, but then at the end, whatever glorious person is interviewing says something about how the Hawks are rumoured to have first draft pick in June and if something something mumble Harry Styles. 

"He's got speed and skill, and I think the Hawks organisation is looking forward to all the fresh faces 2014 has to offer."

It's great, as long as Louis doesn't allow himself to be selfish and think about the implications. And he doesn't. 

When he texts Harry that afternoon, right before he knows it'll be sleep time in Sweden, Niall, giant fucking bitch that he is, has already told him. Their conversation still goes exactly as Louis expected, though. 

_HI BABY N TOLD ME ALREADY CAN I JACk off to it  
I'm sorry, those weren't supposed to be in caps. _

_Like u haven't already_

_xP xD xS xQ xF xL xX xXX XXX. Lou he knows I exist XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX xxx xxx :(_

_Stop using xD_

_If you didn't have an android I could use emojis but you're a savage._  
I wanna be a member of the BLACKHAWKS organization with a z.  
What if I get drafted by the Lightning?  
xD  
xDDDDD 

_St. Louis is kinda cute xD_

_You would insult me this way? Don't I mean anything to you? After everything we've been through together?_

_Baby darling sugarplum shut the fuck up and go finger urself to 19 again_

_I haven't stooped that low yet._  
I want him to do it for me <3  
You can watch too, of course.  
Or he could FUCK me while I FUCK you?  
Why is that autocorrected to caps ;( 

_Isnt it past ur bedtime????????????????????????????????????_

_Yes!!! But we get to sleep in LATE tomorrow morning so I'm letting myself stay up an extra hour so I don't mess up my schedule._

_What time_

_9_

_Oh ya thats def sleeping in during winter break_

_I don't have a winter break, remember. JAVS is throwing paper at me to play on the X with him before he ‘hauls my ass out of her to Greenland’.  
*here_

_Who tf is Javs_

_Jafi? Played on the Ams with him, remember, he came to visit me over the summer. Was during the week you were in England, though. Cool dude._  
You choose the weirdest things to get jealous over.  
He says hi.  
DONT WORRY NOT GNA STEAL UR BOY I LIKE TITS  
That was JAVS I’m so sorry I love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

_Tell him thx for the reassurance but wait arent finals tmrw it’s the 6th_

_xD_

_GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP_

_xDD_

_. get a hatty for me tmrw_

*

They don't talk about how they missed Louis' birthday or Christmas or New Years' and it's cool. It's cool.

*

By the middle of the second period, Canada is beating the USA, 3-1. Harry is serving a penalty for hooking, because of course he is. Louis is sat at Coach's house, squeezed in between Nialler and Harvs, and it would be an understatement to say that there's tension in the room.

The camera pans in on Harry, because of course it does, and he looked fundamentally pissed off. He chews on his mouth guard, pops it back in, and says something to his linemates that looks bossy and captain-y. Hockey is the only time Harry is anything other than a pacifistic hippie. 

Also mouths something that looks suspiciously like _motherfucking piece of shit cunt_ while looking up at the time, because of course he does. While being filmed. 

"You'd think I raised him better than that," Anne sighs, getting up to get more popcorn. Or liquor. Louis wishes he could have a drink or seven. 

The announcer is saying something along the lines of how shocked he is over Styles' inability to score during such a crucial game. Louis doesn't even resist rolling his eyes. He hates when they give their opinions.

When his penalty is over, Harry skates onto the ice like a madman, and plays like one, too. 

With 49.6 seconds remaining in the second quarter, Harry scores. It’s a really fucking beautiful one, solid and clear and unmistakable. 3-2. 

“Do you think wings would get here before intermission’s over?” Niall asks, peeking at his phone. 

“Probably not,” Zayn says. “I’m not getting up to get them in the middle of third.”

“What the fuck,” Niall complains. “You’re least invested in the game.”

“No cursing, boys,” Coach says, seeming resigned. 

“I’ll get up and get them,” Smithy says from his spot on the floor in between Harvs’ legs, but I want a drink. And fries.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Niall whines. Coach closes his eyes. 

"Okay, Crosby," Howski snorts. "Just order the damn wings. Someone will have to get them."

It's silent for a moment, and Howski must seem to get why, because—"’cause he whines? Like Crosby. Crosby whines. You know."

"Do we?" Smadder asks. 

"Comparing someone to Crosby isn't much of an insult, sweetie," Mrs Coach says, patting his shoulder when she gets up. "There are disgusting packages of frozen wings and processed pizza in the back of the freezer Barry thinks I haven't seen, would you all like those?" 

Choruses of _yes_ and _absolutely_ and _duh... uh I mean yes, ma'am_ ring out. "Lovely. Maura, go make them." 

Maura doesn't even bat an eye. "Niall, go on."

Niall frowns loudly. She raises an eyebrow. Niall frowns even louder; it's giving Louis a headache, but he gets up with an ever-suffering sigh and dragging feet. 

When the food is finished, the boys demolish half of it before intermission is even over. It mostly tastes like grease and cardboard, and they look like they're in heaven. Louis hopes he never has to stoop that low, but he’s got like nine wings in his hand and three in his mouth, so maybe he already has. 

"You really ought not to be eating this," Coach says. "It's not like you lot need more things veering off your diet plan."

"The fact that we have a diet plan," Fuller points out, mouth full of pizza. 

If Harry was here, he'd look offended and start his speech. As it is. 

"If you want our team to keep getting taken seriously even though we don't have a fifty-thousand dollar tuition," Liam starts sternly, voice exaggeratedly low and slow. 

"Then you have to put in the _work_ ," Marxsy presses, omitting at least ninety swears. "And sticking to the diet plan is one way of doing so. Okay? Okay."

"Oh, captain, my captain," they chorus back, same as they always do when Harry demonstrates prime leadership qualities and how bossy and slightly manic he truly is. It's cute. It'd be cuter if Harry was actually here to pout and laugh when they do it. 

Third period isn't the _best_ game Louis' ever seen him play, but it's definitely up there. 

He skates like he's got some sort of personal vengeance against the ice. Swift and brutal and efficient. USA takes lots of shots, 30-22 five minutes into the third period, but none of them are _connecting_. Harry make his connect, and Louis isn't sure it's not purely through force of will. 

It's a nasty play; half of Canada could be counted as assists, but somehow, number 17 for the States steals it back and shoots it toward the far side of the rink, except there isn't even anyone _there_ , except then there is, because Harry is and the announcer is speaking so quickly Louis isn't sure he's not wanking off in the box and—yeah. Harry Styles, 95 for USA, scores. Again. 3-3. 

"Holy shit," Marc breathes. None of the adults even chastise him because, yeah. Holy shit. "What if he—" 

Jamesy covers his mouth before he can even finish the sentence. "Don't _jinx_ it." 

"Superstitious freak," Marc says, rolling his eyes when Jamesy moves his hand back, but he doesn't finish his sentence.

It's like the other players finally remember they're supposed to be playing real life hockey after Harry's goal (assisted by one Jafi Bjorne, because of course it is) and things heat up. 

Sadly, Canada knows how to play hockey, too. It jumps from 3-3 to 4-3 to 4-4. Three minutes left in regulation.

Louis hasn't been speaking much this game, all nerves and anxiety, but at 3:33.8, he says, "I really need them to score like 90 times in the next two minutes." 

"I'll make sure to send the request in," Coach says dryly, as if his knee isn’t bouncing and his eyes don’t look like a serial killer’s would. Expecting a timeout, Louis stands up, bowl of finished wings balanced on one hand while he tries to maneuver through the crowd and into the kitchen.

"If this goes into overtime..." Carts says. 

And then Harry scores. 

Louis trips over Rocky and falls face-first into Carts’ lap, wings flying high into the air. 

“Goddamn,” Coach swears.

*

5-4.

In the locker room, Harry gets interviewed shirtless, all sweaty and flushed and gross and so fucking hot Louis almost passes out. He keeps his cool even through Harvs’ catcalls, because he has _decorum_. And Harry has a dick. Shit, no. 

Harry’s grinning, bright whites and harsh breaths into the mic. There’s a wet towel around his neck. 

“Harry, how do you _feel_?”

“Not too shabby,” Harry says. His eyes are twinkling. Louis would drop to his knees right then and there, blow him with all the enthusiasm he could muster, right in front of his teammates and every camera in the room. 

“I’d say.” A pause. A murmured question from another reporter Louis can’t hear well enough; Harry licking his lips and raising his eyebrows. 

“We were okay. I think we could’ve been better, we definitely weren’t playing at our full potential. Canada’s always a, uh, challenge for us—and every country, y’know, but we have a really great roster this year, but only just did good enough.”

“I’d wager you did more than good enough.” Harry turns his face to look directly at them. God, he’s a PR specialist’s wet dream. His grin died down while he was speaking, but it’s obvious that he’s only barely restraining it now. Bad at containment. “How did you manage that, in such a difficult and close-knit game?”

He pulls the ends of the towel and runs a hand over his mouth and looks down for a second. “I, uh, someone, my…um, person asked me to get a hatty for them. So I tried my hardest. The team set up some awesome passes that made it way easier.”

“ _Yo_ ,” Galler exclaims. 

“His _person_ ,” says Marc. 

“I wonder who he could possibly mean,” Zayn says drily. 

“Me,” Niall says. “It’s obviously me. I told him to score ninety goals on the 30th, so we can assume by deductive reasoning that 90 divided by 30 is 3, meaning that he scored 3 goals because of what I told him.”

“Amazing,” Liam says. 

“Yes,” Niall agrees, nodding. “Yes, it is.”

Louis hasn’t moved from the floor since he fell, and is still half on Carts’ lap. Carts pats his head.

*

When he checks his phone half an hour later, he’s gotten a single text from Harry.

_xD_

*

Two weeks after Harry comes back from Sweden, a Blackhawks scout attends a game.

“They’ve been coming for a while,” Coach admits. “Not just them. Others. But I thought it’d be better for your morale if you didn’t know.” 

Louis isn’t in the locker room when this happens, but Carts gives him all the details, like how Harry was in a frightening and catatonic state for three whole minutes, hardly looking like he was breathing. And then he tipped over and almost broke his nose.

“Well,” he finally answered. “That’s—well.”

All things considered, Louis thinks he took it pretty well. 

Harry plays weird the first period of that game, too careful and neat and nothing like the almost crazy and imaginative plays that characterise his style. 

Then, while they wait for the ref to call penalty on a play, Liam pulls him in by the back of his helmet and says something that must be life-changing and ever wise or maybe threatening and probably all three, and he’s back to normal. A few of the other boys have already tried telling Harry to loosen up, but Louis just thinks there’s something between a goalie and his captain that’s important, primarily because they’re the two craziest motherfuckers on the team by default. It’s cool. 

Once Harry gets past that initial strangeness (and asks Coach to please never tell him when there are scouts watching him play), things go really, really good. Their school has always had a good rep, especially since Coach transferred here and geared the team into shape, but coverage gets kind of—well, he doesn’t know what the right word is, but the important people paying attention to more than just Harry now. Carts and Niall, more specifically; they’re the other ones that everyone knows have a genuine chance of making it the big league, and now other people people know that, too. 

So maybe _really, really good_ is an understatement. Things are _amazing_. (As long as Louis doesn’t let himself think about the things he shouldn’t let himself think about, but at this stage, at this point in time, that’s pretty much a given.) 

And then Harry starts showing signs of a concussion.

*

1) He’s driving Louis home on a day without practice, and it’s cloudy and grey out, but he’s wearing shades and driving like an 80-year-old woman.

“I actually do have to get home before dinnertime,” Louis says idly. “Can you even see with those things on?”

“I can see fine,” Harry answers. “And I’m not driving _that_ slow, whatever.”

Louis squints suspiciously.

2) AP Gov is really, really boring. Louis gets that. He doesn’t know a single person who actually _enjoys_ the class. Harry himself complains about it on an almost daily basis.

He complains, yes, but he doesn’t fall asleep in it. Except, apparently, for when he does. 

He passes out ten minutes into the class. Hartford is droning on about balance of power, Louis is doodling uneven shapes instead of taking notes, and Fuller is throwing wads of paper at the back of Harry’s head. 

To be fair, this scenario happens pretty frequently, but usually Harry will have some sort of reaction, like a half-assed threat or throwing something back. Instead, his face is planted in the crease of his textbook and body completely still. 

Louis pokes him one, two, three times, no response. Pokes him where he knows he’s most ticklish under his ribs and still nothing. It takes five minutes to wake Harry up, and even then he looks lost and out of it, out of himself. 

3) There aren’t all that many specific situations, but Louis is around hockey players a lot more than he’d maybe like to be, and he knows what a fucking concussion looks like. So does the rest of the team and Anne and Coach because _seriously_.

*

In the end, Louis thinks it’s Harvs who says something to Coach.

Louis hears from Niall that Harry gets called out of seventh period and hears from Jamesy, who TAs for the receptionist, that Coach’s talk with Harry while he waited to get picked up by Anne was the most frightening thing he’s ever heard in his life. 

“He was like, _if you ever try to pull that ever again, I’ll pull you straight off the team and make sure you don’t ever again get a chance to_ and a bunch of threats that you could tell he was totally serious about. H kept getting paler and paler and looked like he was about to pass out. Coach didn’t even _yell_ , I think that’s the scariest part. He was, like, legit about to kick H off the team, I swear.”

*

The day he leaves, the concussion is confirmed. Mild, but there. He has to spend the first rest of the day in the hospital to make sure that he hasn’t managed to entirely fuck his nervous system up and by some crazy hand of fate, he hasn’t.

Niall tells him that Coach said that Anne is going to keep Harry out of school for a week and a half and grounded for twice that. As per doctor's orders. 

Louis has wanted to run over to Harry's house since he found out he was out of the hospital, but he doesn't trust that he wouldn't punch Harry in the throat the second he saw him, so he keeps away. 

Louis does a lot of thinking in those days. Most of it isn't good. 

Harry comes back to school on a Thursday. The entire varsity hockey team jumps on him in the courtyard during lunch and shout what are either threats or concern and, more frequently, both. Or so Louis hears; he spends every class he has with Harry in the clinic or hiding in the front office with Ms Lisa. 

She tries to kick him out the first ten minutes, but then maybe sees something in his face and asks what could possibly be wrong this time. 

"Ms Lisa," Louis says, not looking up from the papers he's filing for her, "my boyfriend loves hockey more than he loves me." 

Everyone else he knows would give him a speech on how that isn't possibly true, why is he thinking that way, he's got to know how much Harry cares for him. And, like, shit, that's not the issue. He knows how much Harry loves him, but he knows how much Harry loves hockey and there isn't much equality between the two. 

Ms Lisa says mildly, "that's unfortunate," and calls half of his teachers to let them know that Louis Tomlinson will be out of their classes indefinitely.

*

He goes over to Harry's house Friday after school. Anne lets him straight up the stairs; when Louis opens the door, he finds Harry sat on his bed and fucking around on his phone.

He sits up faster than Louis' eyes can follow. “Lou,” he breathes, smiling. 

“Don’t sit up so fast, wouldn’t want to send yourself into another concussion,” Louis says, maybe a little unkind. Definitely a little unkind. 

Harry’s smile drops. 

Louis leans against the door and paces his breathing. “What if you’d died?”

“I didn’t _die_ ,” Harry says.

“Well, fucking obviously,” Louis snaps. “But you could have. Do you seriously think you’re so indestructible that a concussion couldn’t kill you? All the fucking world, and you’re the only one who’s immune?”

“I don’t think I’m indestructible. We were—there are big games coming up, we’re super close to semifinals, and it’d be stupid to risk that.”

Louis goes from forcingly calm to hysterical so quickly it feels like whiplash. “Stupid? _Stupid_? It’d be stupid to keep yourself safe, to not risk your brain exploding—”

“My brain wasn’t going to explode,” Harry cuts him off. There’s a tightness around his eyes now. Annoyance, confusion, both. “What’s this about, Louis, like, I know I fucked up, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, I _get_ that, I’ve heard the speech like ninety times. Why are you giving it to me, too?”

He just doesn’t fucking get it. “If you died,” Louis starts, “because of a stupid mistake, we’d be the ones who have to deal with the aftermath. I—it’s like you don’t even think about any of that. You think _hockey_ and you see the end goal of hockey and that’s _it_ , you’re so bloody focused on that sport and I… fuck, Harry. I plan my fucking _days_ around you, and you plan your life around hockey. And it’s so obvious now, you know, that you won’t see what was really wrong with what you did, ‘cause you did it for hockey, right, and that makes it okay.”

Louis doesn’t know how to put the look on Harry’s face into words. He feels kind of nauseous when he says his next words, knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s beyond idiotic to even _think_ it, but he can’t help it. It’s all he’s been thinking about. 

“If you had to choose, would it be me or hockey?”

Harry’s mouth is open and his eyes are a jumbled storm of emotions and he doesn’t answer. “Louis…” he says softly. He doesn’t answer. 

“Right,” Louis says, and runs out before he vomits all over the floor.

*

Louis bundles under his covers when he gets home and doesn’t bother getting up for dinner. He pretends to be sick when his mum or sisters ask what’s the matter, and he is, kind of; he’s sick of himself for centreing his world around a single boy and that he dared to ask in the first place.

At 10:14, he gets a call from Niall. He’s been ignoring all the ones from Harry, but Niall isn’t usually one for phone calls, prefers texting, so Louis can’t not answer. 

The second he picks up, Niall is saying cheerily into the mic, “I just want to remind you, first and foremost, that while I consider you a good friend, if you ever pull that shit ever again, I’ll fucking bruise you and not feel a fucking ounce of regret. Listen, I don’t give a fuck how pissed off you were, you don’t say shit like that _ever_ , point blank. You don’t send someone who’s still recovering from a concussion into panic. That was selfish and fucking childish. He’s had hockey since before he could fully form sentences and for you to _say_ that—”

The other line is silent. In all the time Louis has known him, he’s never known Niall to get this upset. Rephrase: he’s never known Niall to get this upset at _him_. He gets angry plenty enough when someone fucks with Harry. 

“Niall—”

“No, shut up, you wouldn’t listen to him, so I won’t listen to you. You’re gonna call him, and you’re not gonna tell him I called you, and you’re gonna say sorry and that you didn’t mean it, that you’re not that goddamned fucking stupid. Thanks for the talk.” He hangs up.

*

They are in a state of flux.

Harry is walking on eggshells around him, and he’s walking on eggshells around Harry. Neither of them want to bring up the hoard of elephants in the room, and the hockey team has been odd with Louis. He doesn’t think Niall told them exactly what happened, but they’re not stupid guys, and he’s sure their assumptions are closer to the truth than otherwise. 

When he asks Zayn his opinions on the thing, trying to salvage something, Zayn doesn’t wanna answer him and yeah, okay, it was stupid. He’s known as much since the words left his mouth. 

They’re not quite broken up, but Louis isn’t sure if they’re quite together, either. 

Louis apologised. It was the obvious thing to do, one, and two, he wasn’t unconvinced that Niall wouldn’t rip his skull off in the middle of Anatomy. 

There isn’t even some secret beneficial side effect out of their state; his grades don’t magically go up, he doesn’t start working out more than twice a month, his eating habits don’t improve, he doesn’t get elected president. He doesn’t suddenly stop caring about Harry more than too many other things. Nothing. It’s just feeling shitty and not wanting to be the one to break the tension.

*

And then, finally, Harry breaks it. Louis thinks there should be more fanfare. A speech, maybe, Harry sneaking into his bedroom at 3am and proclaiming his undying and unconditional love.

Instead, they’re both in the hallway during their sixth, probably skipping—definitely skipping—and Harry walks over to him with purpose rather than shuffling away like they’ve been doing the past two weeks. 

“Louis,” Harry says.

“Harry?”

Harry leans in and presses his forehead against his, warm breath fanning across his face and releasing most if not all of the tension he’s had pent up. 

“I love hockey a lot,” Harry starts, hands braced on either side of Louis’ on the wall, “and I love you a lot. Can’t that be enough?”

Louis closes his eyes and nods. Yeah. For now, it’s got to be.

*

The very day after their first date, Harry took a brutal hit and got some serious internal contusions and a sprained knee.

“I am so sorry, oh my God,” Harry said the Monday after. Louis was staring at his cast and crutches and wondering who he pissed off. “I swear this doesn’t happen all that often.”

Jamesy’d been walking by and said mildly, “he’s totally lying, it happens like every other day,” and scurried away before Harry could stab him with the point of his crutch. 

“Definitely not every other day,” Harry reassured him. “But it happens? Contact sport, y’know. If you still wanna go on the second date—”

“‘Course I do,” Louis said, easily taking Harry’s bag from him and taking care not to bump the crutches. “You’re not gonna stop playing your stupid Canadian sport just because we might date.”

The smile Harry flashed at him then is still the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. 

“I’ll make you like it, I swear,” he said, hobbling to catch up to Louis’ slow strides. 

“Baby, you can try.”

“I will.” And he did.


End file.
